


hiding happiness in clichés

by sky_somedays



Category: American Vandal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Coming Out, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Misunderstandings, Reconciliation, Returning Home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-29 23:54:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19841173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sky_somedays/pseuds/sky_somedays
Summary: His phone buzzes on his work desk, the first notification Peter’s had from Sam in a year.Wanna hang out?





	1. Peter

**Author's Note:**

> netflix cancelled american vandal and i’m bitter about it so here’s a post-canon au (it's been sitting in my drafts for months whoops)
> 
> title from Tigerblood by Vistas.
> 
> some warnings in the end note.

Peter thought home would feel different after freshman year of college, but it feels exactly the same. The same, but ill-fitting, like a shirt he’s almost outgrown.

“Are you going to see Sam while you’re home?” his mom asks sympathetically on his first day back. “I’m sure he would want to see you.”

“I don’t think he’s here,” Peter says, not looking up from loading the dishwasher. “He’s staying at school for the summer.”

“That’s a shame.” His mom squeezes his shoulder on her way past. “Maybe you could call him.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Peter has no intention of calling Sam, but he lets himself think about it while he hunts around for the detergent pods. He imagines hearing Sam’s voice: _Why are you calling me, Pete?_ Maybe he would actually want to talk. Maybe he would sound happy to hear from Peter. Unlikely, given how they left things. It’s easier if he doesn’t think about it.

Peter has no idea what he’s going to fill his days with until sophomore year starts. The summer stretches ahead of him, impossibly long and empty. A few people have asked Peter what his next docu project will be, but the truth is he doesn’t have any more plans to continue _Vandal_. It was his and Sam’s and continuing it alone feels wrong. Outside of school Peter has storyboarded a few ideas for shorts and has written two scripts but the sense of urgency he used to feel when creating is gone. He chalks the whole thing up to being so busy with college and doesn’t think about that, either.

Peter finds himself on Dylan’s doorstep after a week of being back. Standing there, hand poised to knock, he feels like he’s about to conduct an interview.

Dylan looks basically the same when he opens the door. “Pete, my man! I didn’t know you were back!” Dylan administers the bro hug, back slap and all. Peter had been disastrously incapable of receiving such a ritual a year ago, but college has helped him somewhat. He’s slightly looser now. He returns the back slap, surprised by how happy he is to see Dylan.

“Y’look good, bro,” Dylan says, standing back and appraising Peter. “Y’look less like you have a stick up your ass.”

Peter laughs. “Thanks, man.”

“Peter fuckin’ Maldonado. Wow.” Dylan shakes his head. “C’mon in, man. My parents are at work – we can smoke a j, have some brewskis.”

“It’s 11am,” Peter says, mildly, but doesn’t object as he follows Dylan inside. Dylan’s house is exactly the way Peter remembers it. He feels like he’s back in junior year, nervously twisting his shirt hem in his hands, deciding where to set up to interview Dylan. He half-expects to find the Wayback Boys sprawled in the living room.

“You drink beer now? You smoke? You better not still be a fuckin’ square.”

“Yeah, I drink. Actually, uh – I was wondering if I could buy some weed from you.” No point in dancing around it. Dylan wheels around, his eyes bugging out of his head, one hand pressed to his heart like Peter has shocked him to his core.

“ _What_? You a fuckin’ stoner now?”

“No, I just like to – relax.”

“What about your – your lung thing?”

“Still have asthma.” Peter shrugs. “I don’t need to smoke as much to get high, with all the coughing.”

Dylan laughs. Peter had forgotten how loud Dylan’s laugh is. “ _Right on_ , man, right on! Yeah I can hook you up bro. How much do you want? An eighth? More? You got a favourite strain?”

They spend an excited half hour going through Dylan’s stash. Peter gamely lets Dylan walk him through all of his different types, carefully labelled in individual Ziplocs. He settles on an indica called Blue Mystic that Dylan insists is _totally chill, like you’ll melt into the couch, it’s dope_ and pulls out a wad of bills. Dylan looks offended.

“Fuck no, Pete, you’re not paying me for this. First pickup’s on me for, like, exonerating me or whatever.”

Peter blinks. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, dude, of course. Why you buying from me, anyway? If you were expecting to pay? You know it’s legal here now.” Dylan peers at Peter like he thinks Peter might not realize this. “You can just go buy some.”

“Don’t have a fake ID.” Peter fiddles with the bag. “And, uh – wanted to see how you were doing.”

“You wanted to hang out? Pete, I’m touched.” Dylan pretends to wipe away a tear then collapses into guffaws. “You should’ve called ahead though, the Boys would definitely get here for a reunion.”

“How are those guys?” Peter asks. Dylan is already pressing a lit blunt into his hands and he takes a careful hit.

“They’re doing good, man! Spencer’s got this sick job at an axe-throwing place, he sneaks me in all the time and we get baked and throw axes at shit.” Dylan takes the blunt and takes a much bigger hit. “Lucas is at community college, he wants to start his own clothing brand or something. Entrepreneurial whatever. Ganj is at some fancy college studying fuckin’ biochem, man! She’s got this super hot girlfriend.” He pauses, drops his voice like he doesn’t want anyone to overhear, even though they are the only two people in the house. “She gets super mad when I say that though, so don’t tell her.”

“I won’t,” Peter promises solemnly.

“God, I really wish everyone was here _right now_.” Dylan jabs Peter in the arm. “Hey, we should make it happen this summer! You, me, your boy Ecklund, Randall, the Boys.”

“Sam’s not here.”

Dylan pulls up short. “No? Why not?”

Peter shrugs. “He’s staying at college I think.”

“You _think_? You mean you two aren’t attached at the hip anymore?”

“Uh, no.” Peter doesn’t want to talk about Sam. He barely even wants to think about him, it’s too much and there’s nothing he can do but be miserable about it.

“Woah! Man, I’m so sorry to hear that, like for real. You two had such a great –” Dylan makes an incomprehensible gesture with both hands, twisting his fingers like he’s trying to tie them together “– thing going.”

“Yeah. Well. Not anymore, I guess.”

“What happened, bro?”

“We had a fight.” Peter sinks down into the couch. “Just – a stupid fight. And then we both went to different colleges and he never texted me or anything.”

“Did you text him?”

Peter isn’t in the mood to have anyone point out his hypocrisies, least of all Dylan Maxwell, but the blunt is strong and his whole body is slack and relaxed. He settles for grunting instead of answering.

“ _Duh_ , man, you gotta reach out! You can’t expect the gi– the _guy_ to do all the work.”

It’s easier to pretend he didn’t hear Dylan’s misstep, so Peter does just that. “Yeah, I guess.”

“You wanna fix it, Pete. Sam’s great, you guys are great. Just apologize for whatever it was.”

“What if it wasn’t my fault?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Dylan looks uncharacteristically serious, staring Peter down. “If you’re sorry, just say you’re sorry.”

Peter hums. “Yeah.”

The moment dissipates and Dylan reaches for the TV remote. “What d’you think, man? Animal Planet or Family Guy?”

The fight had been stupid and devastating. Tension had been building for a while towards the end of senior year – Sam was upset that Peter was considering going to a different college when the plan had been the same one for both of them. Peter attributed it to the success and stress of the second season of _Vandal_ , the press circuit, the travelling, the pressure. They were back under a microscope and it was a lot; Peter felt bad sometimes for subjecting Sam to it all. Sam took criticism harder than Peter, didn’t always want to look at comments even if he didn’t admit it.

Then there was the party at the end of senior year. Peter didn’t even go to the party, but Sam did, and – well, everything went to shit just after that.

Peter had no real intention of contacting Sam. He wasn’t even in town, and their text conversation is right at the bottom of Peter’s message app. Peter couldn’t handle if he texted and Sam didn’t answer. Sam could have changed his number, or blocked Peter. The entire idea is too overwhelming.

Peter is mulling all of this over a few days after seeing Dylan, trailing around the grocery store sullenly with a list from his mom. He rounds the corner of the bread aisle and nearly collides with someone’s cart. When he looks up, an apology on the tip of his tongue, he finds himself staring at Sam.

“Peter!” Sam looks surprised, eyes comically wide. “Wow. I didn’t know you were back.”

Peter can’t get any words out. “Uh.”

“I thought you were staying at school,” Sam prompts, like they’re rehearsing and he’s giving Peter his cue.

“No,” Peter says, shakes himself slightly. “I’m back home for the summer. Working part time, proofreading for the newspaper.” Why did he say that? It’s not even relevant. “Uh. I thought _you_ were staying at school.”

“Nope, roommate arrangement fell through. We signed a lease for September instead.” Sam holds up a shopping list, rolls his eyes. “My mom’s loving it. I thought I’d catch up on sleep, maybe marathon a few shows, but no. I’m on errand duty today, tomorrow I’m cleaning out the garage.”

Small talk. It stings a little, how polite and surface Sam is being, but Peter can do this. “Errand duty? So you finally have a car? Or are you still bugging Gabi every day.”

Sam snorts. “No, I have a car. Gabi’s not even here right now, she’s taking summer classes.”

“Oh.” Peter hasn’t really kept up with many people from Hanover. He feels weird about that now.

Sam cocks his head, smiling slightly. “You look good, buddy. College suits you, you’re all – you look –”

“Less like I have a stick up my ass.”

“I mean, I wasn’t gonna say it.”

“Dylan said it for you.”

“You saw Dylan already?” Sam looks a little taken aback.

“Uh – yeah. We hung out.” Peter realizes there’s no reason he can give that makes much sense, so he doesn’t elaborate.

Sam nods, glancing around. Peter has been so busy scrutinizing his expression, his voice, that he hadn’t realized that Sam looks good too. He’s filled out a little, something new in the bulk of his shoulders and chest, the way he carries himself more solidly. He’s wearing jean cutoffs and Chucks and a t-shirt that Peter recognizes, but that fits him differently now, hugging the trunk of his body in a new way. His hair is a little shorter. Peter has missed him so much he feels sort of nauseous.

“He asked about you,” Peter says, to break the weird silence that is descending. “Dylan. He asked how you were doing.”

“Oh. What did you say?”

“That I didn’t know. I thought you were doing well. Your Instagram seems – happy.”

Sam frowns, tapping the handle of the cart. “I mean, you could have found out for yourself. You do know that, right?”

“You could have texted _me_. You were the one who left.”

Sam raises his eyebrows. “Uh, yeah. I’m pretty sure you told me to go fuck myself. It’s not like you even apologized or anything.”

It sounds like they’re arguing about a breakup, loudly and publicly next to the 2-for-1 bagels. Peter can feel his cheeks heating up. “Okay,” he mutters. “Whatever.”

Sam looks viscerally irritated. He’s always been an open book, and Peter is glad that that hasn’t changed, even if it means that he can see just how annoyed Sam is with him. “Were you just never going to talk to me again?” Sam’s voice is sharp. “Was that the plan?”

“I – no. Of course not.”

“Good. So we should hang out sometime then.”

This is not the direction Peter expected the conversation to go. He tries to roll with it. “Oh, uh, yeah. Sure. Cool.”

Sam nods. “Cool cool cool. I’ll message you.” And then he’s gone, wheeling his cart around the corner and out of sight.

Peter doesn’t really expect Sam to follow through, but two days later he does. His phone buzzes on his work desk, the first notification Peter’s had from Sam in a year. _Wanna hang out?_

Peter screenshots his lock screen like a loser. He wants to reply immediately but he makes himself wait ten minutes. _Yeah. When are you free?_

Sam is already typing. _Whenever. Today?_

_Sure. I work until 1pm_

Sam sends the man behind a laptop emoji followed by a bunch of skulls. Then: _I’ll be at your place at 2_

The rest of Peter’s shift drags. After what feels like five years he is finally done, and it takes a lot of willpower not to run out of the office. Normally he walks home but today he calls a Lyft, his mind full of images of his messy room. The house is empty when he gets home, his mom is at work. He spends a frantic fifteen minutes shoving things into his closet and under his bed and then brushes his teeth. He’s fretting about whether or not to change his shirt when the doorbell rings.

Peter opens the door at what he hopes is a normal speed. Sam is standing there, looking like he’s trying to seem nonchalant.

“You said two,” Peter says by way of greeting. “You’re like really early.”

Sam has his hands in his pockets, shifting from foot to foot. He shrugs. “Didn’t wanna wait. Whatever. Are you gonna let me in, dude?”

Peter steps back and lets Sam inside. Sam glances around like he’s expecting it to look different and Peter is paralyzed momentarily with anxiety. He has no idea what to say.

Sam breaks the weird atmosphere. “Looks the exact same in here. I feel like I should have some string with me.”

They wander into the living room, which is also exactly the same, save for Peter’s graduation picture framed and hanging on the wall. Sam inspects it, shakes his head. “Your grad picture turned out way better than mine.”

“I doubt that,” Peter mumbles. Sam just rolls his eyes.

“So how was your year?” Sam emphasizes the last word slightly, but Peter pretends not to notice.

“Good. I like college.” Peter snaps his phone case on and off, unable to hold Sam’s gaze. “I ate nothing but pizza for the first two months.”

Sam laughs. Peter missed that sound. “Dude, same! And then I couldn’t even look at a pizza for like the rest of the year.”

“There’s no way that’s true.”

“You’re right. It was a week, tops.”

“What about you? Liking college?”

“Yeah, it’s great.” Sam flops down on the couch. “So much better than high school, and I didn’t even hate that. I only go to half my classes and I still get good grades. It’s the dream.”

Peter thinks about his still-perfect attendance, makes a noise like he agrees.

“Don’t think I don’t know you go to _every single class_ , you fucking nerd.”

Peter joins Sam on the couch, keeping a careful distance. He feels like maybe if he slips up Sam might leave, might remember that he hates Peter and doesn’t want anything to do with him, that this whole thing is a mistake –

“Pete.” Sam is looking at him, a smile playing around his mouth. “You zoning out there, dude?”

“Yeah, I’m still uh. Adjusting. To being back, it’s weird, y’know.”

“Yeah it’s a _trip_.” Sam trills the last word. “There was this girl on my floor that always said that – about everything, even super boring shit. ‘It’s a _trippp_ ’. Now I can’t stop saying it.”

“Kinda sounds like something Dylan would say.”

“God – Dylan! How is he? You saw him, right?”

Peter shrugs. “He’s like the exact same, pretty much. I think he’s got a job at the mall doing something, but he’s mostly just being Dylan. The Wayback Boys are all doing cool stuff. He said we should have a _Vandal_ reunion.” 

To Peter’s surprise, Sam nods enthusiastically. “Yeah! That’ll be so weird, we should do it. I miss those guys.”

“Me too,” Peter says, even though really he just misses Sam. “They were the halcyon days, y’know?”

“Yeah, it really was.” Sam looks around the room, fiddling with a loose thread on his shirt. “It was a real fun time.”

They reminisce about _Vandal_ for a while, retreading old ground. It’s comforting – a part of Peter thought he’d never get to do this again, sit with Sam in his mom’s living room and chat about high school and their old friends. They hit a lull after a while, and Peter was expecting this at some point. He’s tried to think up contingency plans and things they could do if it got awkward but instead he says: “Want to go for a walk?”

Sam squints at him. “Uh, sure. Whatever.”

“We could – smoke? I’ve got a joint rolled.”

Sam’s eyebrows shoot up. “You wanna go for a walk and get baked? Who are you?”

“It’s relaxing,” Peter protests, scooting off the couch and heading for the stairs. “C’mon.”

Peter keeps his weed triple-bagged in a Tupperware under his bed and Sam laughs again when Peter crouches down and retrieves it, unwraps the pillowcase it’s in.

“I can’t believe I’m in your room, watching you get your _weed_.” Sam sounds almost impressed. “You a stoner now, Pete?” He’s teasing, even nudges Peter’s shoulder with his leg. Peter glances up, finds Sam watching him, grinning. Peter hasn’t felt like this in over a year, and he’s missed it so much he has to look away, horrified to find a lump is forming in his throat.

“Well, I’m no Dylan, but I guess so. Kind of.”

“I take it your mom doesn’t know.” Sam eyes the pillowcase, the sealed container. “You really went there with the precautions.”

“No, she’s got a strict no-smoking policy. She gave me this huge lecture about the effects of cannabis on a developing brain.” Peter finds the joint, tucked into its own tiny bag. “Which is why we need to go for a walk – she’ll smell it if we smoke inside, sorry.”

“Nah, it’s like an adventure. Sneaking out to get high, it’s a quintessential teenage experience.”

“We’re barely teenagers,” Peter says, packing everything away again.

Sam hums. “Well, we’d better get a move on then.”

They leave the house and walk in the direction of the nearest park, the joint and a lighter tucked into Peter’s back pocket. The sun is warm on Peter’s skin, and it feels like the best parts of high school, walking side-by-side with Sam and not needing to talk. Peter almost forgets the uncertainty of the past year. It’s almost like they never fought. When they get to the park they find a mom and two small children playing on the swings. Peter points to the tree line, where the park backs onto a patch of forest. “Over there. In the trees?”

Sam raises his hands. “Hey, you’re the expert.” It sounds like he’s trying not to laugh. Peter elbows him in the side, leads the way across the grass, past a sun-bleached jungle gym. He wonders if they look sketchy. Two college guys trying to find a quiet place to smoke up; high school Peter would be having an aneurysm. He laughs at the thought.

“What?” Sam asks, elbowing him back. “What are you laughing about?”

“Nothing, nothing. It’s just funny. Us. This.” 

Sam rolls his eyes. “Didn’t you know? We’re the cool kids now.”

“Pretty sure that’s _never_ gonna be true.”

They pause when they’re nicely hidden, just them and the trees. Peter sparks the lighter, lights the joint. He is aware of Sam’s eyes on him. He usually smokes alone and isn’t used to being scrutinized. He tries to stamp down the self-consciousness as he blows out the flame, offers it to Sam.

“No, you go.” Sam glances back towards the park.

Peter takes the first drag, exhales most of it through his nose, slightly off to the side so it won’t drift towards Sam. He flicks the ash off the end. Sam accepts the joint the next time Peter offers it and holds eye contact as he takes a hit. Peter’s fingers are tingling – from the weed, probably – and he rubs them against his chinos. 

“So.” Sam hands the joint back. “College. You haven’t given me a single detail, Pete.”

Peter shrugs. “Neither have you.”

“Yeah, well I asked you first. Tell me about your dorm, your roommate, all that shit.”

“My roommate’s a huge stoner. All he does is watch Rick and Morty, and Postmate, like, Five Guys. He stole the microwave from the dining hall and keeps it under his bed.”

Sam laughs until his eyes are teary. “Is your roommate Dylan? Jesus, that sounds like a nightmare.”

“It’s okay actually. He’s fun to hang out with. He really likes doing laundry when he’s high so I haven’t had to do my own laundry since I left.”

“That’s dope.” Sam holds his hand out for the joint. 

“Yeah. My floor is mostly pre-med, not a lot of other film students. I joined the undergrad film club. A few people in class recognized me, so that was weird.”

“I had a few of those too.” Sam watches smoke spiral upwards through the branches. “It’s so fucking weird.”

“So,” Peter says, watching Sam smoke. He looks so good smoking, it’s a little unfair. “I gave you details. Gimme details. Also gimme that back, you’re hogging it. Puff puff pass, Ecklund, where are your manners.”

Sam blows smoke at Peter but relinquishes the joint. “What do you wanna know?”

Peter weighs his options, takes his time smoking for a few moments. He’s already feeling it; he makes a mental note to thank Dylan for giving him good stuff. “You were dating someone, right? I saw something on your Insta.”

“Wow, going right for the juicy stuff.”

“You don’t have to answer.”

“We weren’t serious. I only saw him for a month or two.” Sam takes another hit, lets the smoke curl out of his mouth in a way that makes Peter’s stomach clench. “I don’t know, it wasn’t really anything.”

“Oh.” Peter sparks the lighter a few times, feeling the warm metal against his thumb. “It’s _something_ , though. You had a boyfriend, that’s something.”

“We never really used that word.” Sam leans against a tree, tilts his head back against the bark to look up at the sky through the branches. “It was – we were just hooking up, y’know, it was chill.”

Peter has terrible cotton mouth. He wishes he’d brought something to drink. “Oh, yeah.”

“How about you? Did you finally manage to get a girlfriend?”

Peter looks away, towards the park. The family has disappeared and it’s empty. “No. The swings are free, you wanna?”

Sam smiles, a little dopey. “Yeah. Let’s swing.”

Their arms brush for most of the short walk and Peter tries not to miss the contact when they sit down. The swings are old-school, close enough together that they can kick each other’s ankles. Sam starts it, giggling, and pretty soon they have sand in their shoes, the swing chains creaking as they twist around.

“Okay, okay, you win,” Peter says finally. He’s laughing, can’t stop laughing.

Sam looks pleased. “Of course.” He’s beaming at Peter, golden from the sun, familiar freckles and pearly teeth. He has bark in his hair, flecks of lichen. Peter reaches out to brush them away.

“You’re too far away.” Sam leans over and grabs the chain of Peter’s swing. It doesn’t take much to pull them together, the chains squeaking in Sam’s hand. Peter reflexively copies him, holds their swings together with the hand not occupied by the joint. They’re hip-to-hip now, their hands touching on the chains, and neither of them is laughing. Sam is looking at him. His eyes are red-rimmed and heavy-lidded.

“What?” Peter asks, self-conscious, the tug of familiar paranoia.

Sam just shakes his head. “Nothing.” He doesn’t stop looking, though, and Peter’s burning up under his gaze.

“You’re making me nervous,” Peter says. He regrets saying it immediately but he can’t take it back so he tries to pretend it’s not as cringey as he knows it is. He clears his throat. “Seriously, do I have something on my face?”

Sam squints at him like he’s trying to figure something out. “No, your face is fine.” He swings his leg over so that he’s straddling his swing, drags himself even closer with his heels. “Hey. Pete. Can I –?”

Peter nods, holds his breath. Sam ducks around the tangle of swing chains still held together, sweat on metal, and kisses him. It’s not like the first time they kissed – it’s over in a second. Sam pulls back, like he’s checking Peter’s expression. Peter doesn’t know what his face is doing, but he wants Sam to kiss him again, and Sam seems to realize that because he leans back in.

Peter has never kissed anyone while high before, it’s weird, heightened and overwhelming, but also hard to focus on. Sam tastes like smoke and weed. He’s still half-laughing.

They’re both stoned. Peter pulls back, his brain trying to sort through the swirl of thoughts.

Sam’s smiling at him, eyes dark and bloodshot. “Good weed,” he says. 

Peter stands abruptly. The swing bounces against the backs of his legs.

“Peter?”

“I gotta go,” Peter says, his throat tight. “I remembered – I have – I just gotta go.”

“Now?” Sam asks, looking confused. “Why?”

“I just – sorry.” Peter pivots on his heel and starts walking back towards the road, back towards home. He realizes he’s still holding the roach. When he reaches the sidewalk he crushes it under the toe of his shoe, risks a quick glance back at Sam. Sam is still sitting on the swing, staring after him.


	2. Sam

The first time Sam kissed Peter it was the end of senior year and he was drunk.

Gabi had invited him to a party. She had actually invited both him and Peter, but Peter had declined, citing a final paper and a headache. Sam tried to convince him to come but he insisted he wasn’t up to it, and so Sam went with Gabi, a knot of anxiety in his stomach when she picked him up in her mom’s car. “Relax,” she had told him, rolling her eyes. “It’s just a party. It’ll be fun.”

It was fun. Sam drank a lot, lost count of the number of red solo cups Gabi shoved into his hands. He played beer pong with Dylan and the Wayback Boys. He tried shotgunning a beer to limited success. Everything was bright and blurred and great, and it felt like it took no time at all before Gabi was hoisting him back into the car, laughing as he tried and failed to buckle his seat belt. “Wish Pete had been there,” Sam said, head lolling against the seat. “It was so fun, he would’ve had fun.”

“You know Peter.” Gabi had only had two drinks and had no trouble with her seat belt. She pulled away from the curb, put the radio on low in the background.

“Hey, can you drop me off at Peter’s place?” Sam scrabbled with his phone, doing his best to compose a text. “Wanna tell him about everything. Before he gets fomo.”

Gabi shot him a Look. Sam was too busy trying to remember how to spell to ask what she meant by it. They were at Peter’s house before Sam got a response, and Gabi hopped out to help Sam out of the passenger seat. He stumbled a little, leaned on her with both hands. “Sorry,” he said, giggling, “sorry. I’m _drunk_ , Gabi.”

“Yes, Samuel, I know.” Gabi sounded amused. She waited until he was standing upright, swaying slightly, before she leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. “Are you sure you don’t want to go home?”

“No, no, wanna see Pete.”

Gabi waited until Peter answered the door before she drove off. And then it was just Sam and Peter, standing on Peter’s doorstep. The neighbourhood was dark and quiet. Peter had his phone flashlight on, held aloft to illuminate Sam. “It’s 2am. What are you doing here?” Peter asked, a crease between his eyebrows. “You texted me – something, it was mostly illegible. Is everything okay? Sam?”

Sam grinned and pitched forward, one hand twisted in Peter’s pajama shirt for balance. “Everything’s _great_ , Pete! The party was _awesome_ and you should’ve been there! I wanted to tell you all about everything that happened.”

Peter was half-smiling, the way he did when he thought something was funny but was conflicted about it. “Couldn’t it wait until tomorrow?”

“ _No_ , I don’t want you to get fomo, dude! Gotta tell you while it’s still fresh!”

“That’s, uh. Okay. Sure. We have to be quiet though, I don’t want to wake my mom up.”

Sam would have normally made a joke about Mrs Maldonado but he was too distracted by the way Peter smelled. Peter let Sam lean on him as he maneuvered them both inside and closed the door. They were close, close enough that Sam could smell body wash and shampoo. Peter must have had a shower before bed. Sam ended up with his face jammed into Peter’s neck. He distantly realized he was nuzzling.

“Uh, Sam?”

“Sorry, sorry, dude. I’m _drunk_.”

They snuck upstairs as quietly as they could and Peter got Sam a glass of water. Sam sat on Peter’s bed and drank the whole thing, spilling some down his chin. Peter pulled extra pajamas out of his closet, busied around, plugged in Sam’s phone. Sam felt a surge of affection so strong he needed to lie down.

“Sam? You okay?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, staring up at Peter’s ceiling. “M’good.”

“I need to go find the air mattress.” Peter dropped the pajamas onto Sam’s face. “Don’t pass out on me.”

“No, no, stay, need to tell you about the party.”

“Do you want to just share the bed?” Peter’s voice sounded strange, hesitant.

“Yeah, yeah.”

Peter busied himself with his phone while Sam got changed and climbed into bed. He jammed himself against the wall. “C’mon, Pete, c’mon. Ming got _wasted_ again! Randall and Phil were making out for, like, an hour, and there are so many pictures on Instagram. Sarah did a keg stand.”

Peter turned off the overhead light and slid under the covers. He settled on his side to face Sam. “So you and Gabi had a good time?”

“Yeah it was great. She didn’t drink much cuz she was driving. She totally beat Dylan at beer pong it was awesome, but it was kinda unfair, she was playing with Kool-Aid and he was drinking tequila.”

“Hmm.” Peter tucked a hand under his head. He was glasses-less and Sam could see the reflection of the moonlight in his eyes, close in the dark. “Sorry I missed it.”

“I wish you’d been there,” Sam said, edging forward. He hoped he didn’t have booze breath. “You’re fun, you don’t think you’re fun but you are.”

“Um. Thanks.” Peter frowned. “Sam, are you okay?”

“Yeah, Pete, I’m good.” And Sam grabbed a handful of Peter’s shirt, pulled him in, and kissed him.

Sam was too drunk to be kissing anyone, really, had little coordination and bad depth perception. The kiss was harder than he intended; their teeth clicked at least once, and Sam made a frustrated sound in the back of his throat. But Peter kissed him back straight away, responded the second Sam touched him. Like he was waiting for it.

It took a while, but they melted into it. Sam lost track of time in the darkness of Peter’s room, his eyes fluttering open to closed to open again, catching glimpses of Peter’s face in blurred closeup. There were moments where Sam thought that maybe he was dreaming.

“I’m tired,” Sam said eventually, exhaled the words against Peter’s face. “Wanna sleep?”

“Yeah,” Peter whispered. “You need to sleep it off.”

Sam snorted, eyes already fluttering closed. “What _ever_ , ‘m not that drunk.”

“You really are.” Peter paused. “Do – how do –?”

“Big spoon or little spoon?” Sam interrupted him. He was too tired to be embarrassed. “I don’t mind.”

“Oh – um –”

“Peter, just pick.”

“Well – little spoon.”

“Cool.” Sam waited for Peter to turn over, then slung his arm over Peter’s side and tucked in close. He was asleep within minutes, his face mashed against Peter’s shoulder blade.

_You’re a fucking idiot_ , Sam thinks to himself, now, sitting on the swings alone. _You never learn_.

Peter basically ran away from him. Peter obviously isn’t interested. Peter is a bad liar, and is historically bad at keeping things from Sam – there’s a reason that Sam knows about the American Apparel catalogues. If Peter liked Sam back he would have said something. Sam would have noticed one of his many tells. He wouldn’t be able to keep it a secret. But he hasn’t said anything, he isn’t showing any of his typical signs of deception. So Sam is forced to reckon with an inescapable truth - Peter Maldonado is not interested in him. Peter is straight, as straight as he was in high school. He hasn’t gone through an experimentation phase in college the way that Sam had secretly, selfishly hoped. That’s it.

Sam had always been not-quite-straight. He did his best to pretend he didn’t notice guys at school. He tried not to take any of the gay-theatre-kid jokes personally. It was fine – until he caught himself watching Peter edit an episode of the first season of _Vandal_ one evening, both of them staying up late in Peter’s bedroom bent over laptops with a liter of Mountain Dew between them. Peter was illuminated by the blue glow of his screen, his glasses pushed up onto his forehead. He had a smudge of Dorito dust on his cheek. He was so focused he didn’t even notice Sam, and Sam let himself look for far longer than necessary. _Oh no_ , he thought, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. _Not again_.

Sam has always had a problem with liking his friends. The problem persisted throughout middle-school and followed him to high school in the form of an inappropriately gigantic crush on Gabi. But a crush on Peter was something else; they worked together, they were partners. So Sam resolved to squash it.

Except he couldn’t. He couldn’t get any distance from Peter, tied tightly together by _Vandal_ and the press and the crazy response. Then they went to film the second season and were sharing a room, spending every second together, and that was it. It was unsquashable. And then after season two wrapped there was the end of year party and the kiss and the fight and – then they were both going to different colleges and Sam kept almost-texting Peter, had drafted a million different messages, but never sent any of them. He was happy to be the one to text first but didn’t know what to say.

Except Peter never texted Sam, either. Somehow Sam hadn’t expected that.

The park is quiet. Sam is still stoned and doesn’t want to walk home. It’s been at least half an hour since Peter left, shadows stretching across the grass as the sun makes its descent into the tree line. Sam rarely wishes he could relive the _Vandal_ years, as much fun as it was, but he finds himself doing just that, sitting alone with a fuzzy head and the sensation of Peter’s mouth still lingering on his. It’s a long time before he shoves off the swing and makes his way unsteadily home.

Sam has a lot of friends, but the whole thing with Peter means he only wants to speak to one of them. _Pls tell me you’re coming home soon_ he texts Gabi the day after the park debacle. _I need youuuu_.

She responds almost immediately. _Coming back on Saturday! Can’t wait to see you!_

The days crawl by, slowed down even further by Sam’s slowly withering hope that Peter will text him. He considers texting first but, once again, he doesn’t know what to say.

Gabi is only back in town for a couple of weeks to visit her family. She tells Sam to keep his schedule clear the day she arrives and he agrees, doesn’t tell her he’d already blocked off the whole weekend for her. She screams when he opens his front door, grabs him in a rib-crushing hug. “I can’t believe how good you look!” she says excitedly. “We should go grab coffee or something. I’ll drive – like old times.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, and he’s grinning so hard his face hurts. “Holy shit, it’s good to see you, Gabs.”

She beams at him and hugs him again. “You look _amazing_. Has anyone told you you look amazing? Are you a gym rat now?” She pokes his chest, pretends to break her finger.

“O _kay_ ,” Sam says, rolling his eyes and steering her towards her car. “Enough flattery. You look great too. We’ve both had a real glow-up.”

They drive to Gabi’s favourite indie coffee place. She tells Sam about her new boyfriend, who sounds a hundred times nicer than Brandon, and about her classes and friends. She also interrogates Sam about his dating life. “I saw that Instagram photo,” she tells him as she pulls into the parking lot. “I’ve got a _lot_ of questions about that.”

When they get inside, they run into Randall and Phil, holding hands by the door. Sam hasn’t spoken to either of them since graduation, and they all agree to sit together. Phil and Gabi offer to order so Sam and Randall go to find a good table. Sam feels a little like they’re on a double date.

“So, dude.” Randall says the second they sit down. “Spill the tea. Is that guy from your Insta your boyfriend? We’ve got a bet going.” He nods in the direction of Phil, standing in line with Gabi.

“ _What_? Why is everyone asking me that? I posted one picture, we weren’t even really dating.”

“Sure.” Randall snorts. “You posted a shirtless bed selfie. You may as well have captioned it ‘we just fucked’.”

“Jesus. It didn’t really mean anything, it – it was his idea, whatever.”

Randall folds his hands under his chin, smiling. “Baby bi Sammy. Showing off his man candy.”

“Wow, I hate you,” Sam says, his face burning. “Also you’re a fucking hypocrite, dude, I’ve seen all of yours and Phil’s Insta stories. I know those Netflix and chill captions are literal. You can’t hide behind heart emojis.”

“I don’t have hundreds of thousands of followers. There were _headlines_ – did you not see that Buzzfeed article? ‘Is Sam from American Vandal Queer’ – somebody must have sent it to you.”

Sam tries not to think about it. Randall is grinning gleefully.

Gabi and Phil return with the drinks then. Phil drops an absent-minded kiss on Randall’s head as he sets his coffee down. Sam feels a twist of envy.

“Hope your order’s still the same,” Gabi says, pushing a cup towards Sam. “Or has that changed too? Do you only drink protein shakes now?”

“God,” Sam grumbles. “I’m not even _swole_.”

Phil mutters something to Randall that sounds suspiciously like _muscle daddy_ and Randall coughs cappuccino foam all over the table. Sam changes the subject to college and hopes that’s the end of it.

They chat about innocent things for a while, catching up on details missed on social media. It’s comfortable and fun and Sam is feeling pretty good, is barely thinking about Peter.

Of course the second he realizes this, Peter immediately comes up in conversation.

“How’s Pete?” Phil asks Sam. All three of them are looking at him expectantly. “We haven’t seen him since last year. I messaged him over Christmas break but I don’t even think he came back here, didn’t his mom go visit him?”

“I think so.” Sam avoids the three sets of eyes trained on him, stares at his mug.

“We should have a _Vandal_ reunion,” Randall says. “I’m sure Dylan and the Boys would be down.”

Sam shrugs. “Sure.”

“We can all catch up. It’s so funny – the dudes who did the documentary about the dicks all like dick. Hey, that’s a great Insta caption.”

Sam chokes on his latte. “Wh-what? Sorry?”

“You, me, Pete. Dicks.” Randall adds a little flourish with his hand that Sam doesn’t really think is necessary. “The gay of it all. Sorry,” he adds, “I know you’re bi. You know what I mean.”

“Peter’s not gay.” Sam looks to Gabi for help, but she’s studiously inspecting her frapp. “He’s – he’s not. I would _definitely_ know if he was.”

Randall exchanges a look with Phil. “Takes one to know one. Dude’s gay. He’s not draping himself in rainbows or anything, but that’s Pete for you, he’s a quiet guy.”

Sam’s reeling, and he knows it shows. He struggles to rein it in. “No way. I know your gaydar is legendary but you’re wrong this time.”

“You could ask him,” Phil says mildly. “You guys still talk, right?”

“Uh, sure.” Sam runs a hand through his hair distractedly. “Yeah. Maybe I’ll do that.”

Sam can barely focus on the rest of the conversation. His brain is full of Randall’s words: _you, me, Pete. Dicks_. _Dude’s gay_. He thinks that maybe he’s having a breakdown. Along with the words, he keeps replaying both kisses over in his head, Peter’s hesitation, his pained expression, how he didn’t even make up a good excuse to leave the park. Sam feels like the worst person in the world.

“What’s up?” Gabi asks when they’re back in her car after saying bye to Randall and Phil. “You look – super weird. Was it the Pete thing? Did you _really_ not know?”

Sam is on the verge of hyperventilating. “I need to tell you something.”

Gabi frowns. “You can tell me anything.”

“I – we kissed. Me and Pete. Twice.”

The car is silent for a long moment. “Um,” Gabi says finally, sounding confused, “so, how did you not know –?”

“I mean –” Sam rakes both hands through his hair. “I mean I thought – I thought he was straight.”

Gabi looks at him like he’s the dumbest person she’s ever met. “What are you talking about, Sam? You guys kissed but you thought he was straight?”

“I mean – I kissed him after that party, the end of senior year, remember? You dropped me off at his house and – and I was wasted –”

“Yeah, and you kept talking about how great Peter is, and how much you wanted to see him, and you texted him like twenty heart emojis.”

Sam buries his face in his hands. “ _Well_ , we – I kissed him and then we – _cuddled_ all night and I was so hungover the next morning that I didn’t – I didn’t really –”

Gabi groans. “What did you do, Sammy?”

“I just left! I was just like – ‘see ya later buddy’ – and took off, and then I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable, because he was _straight_ , so I pretended it hadn’t happened. I just. Laughed it off.” He peeks at Gabi through his fingers and finds her glaring at him. “Don’t look at me like that!”

“You’re a moron, Ecklund.” Gabi shakes her head. “Then what happened?”

“Things were fine, normal, whatever – and then a couple weeks later I told him I was bi.”

Gabi’s mouth tightens. “Right.”

“Yeah. And he was being weird about it – you know all that. So I assumed he was being like, biphobic or something – even though that seemed so out of character for him, Pete’s so not shitty about stuff like that. And we were fighting about college. And it was so _stupid_.” Sam flops back in his seat. “And I told him to stop being such a pussy about us kissing and to get over it because it was 2018 and he’d kissed me _back_ , he’d been into it, and – and then he told me to go fuck myself so I left.”

A few miserable moments pass. Gabi pokes him in the arm. “So what about the second time? The second kiss?”

Sam paws at his eyes – there must be dust in them or something. “A week ago. We hung out and got high and – and I kissed him. And then he left.”

“Jesus.” She pauses. “So you still like him, then.”

Sam waves a hand around, like that’s an answer. When that doesn’t satisfy her, he says, “I mean – he’s my best friend, Gabs. Other than you, you’ll always be my number one.” He bumps his knuckles against her shoulder. She smiles.

“Good. But that’s not what I mean – you _like_ him.”

“I guess.” There really isn’t any point in trying to lie to her.

Gabi reaches out and squeezes his hand. “Have you talked to him?”

“Not about this. We’re barely talking, I don’t wanna freak him out. And – and now, what would I even say? ‘Hey man, heard you’re gay, so I guess this means you just don’t like me and are pity kissing me because I’m _pathetic_ and apparently we’re not even as close as I thought because you didn’t bother to come out to me even though _I_ came out to _you_ like a year ago’?” Sam takes a deep, fortifying breath. Gabi strokes his knuckles.

“Maybe not – all at once. But I think you hit all the major beats.”

Sam leans across to rest his head on her shoulder for a second. “Did I already say you’re my number one?”

She just laughs, plants a kiss in his hair. “Yeah, yeah. Now get off me, sad boy, we’re burning daylight.”

Things had seemed normal after the drunken kiss. Sam texted Peter the following night, when they were both in their own houses and their own beds, and Sam’s hangover had subsided. _You miss me????_ Sam snorted to himself as he sent it. He followed it up with a bunch of flirty emojis and a picture of himself, shirtless with the covers tucked around his waist, pulling an exaggeratedly sensual face. If they could joke about it, things wouldn’t be weird. They always joked easily and Sam fell asleep before Peter responded. Peter still hadn’t responded the next morning, and that was a little strange, but Sam shrugged it off.

They saw each other sporadically over the next few weeks, mostly in the company of other people. Things were – off, but Sam couldn’t put his finger on why, and everyone was busy with the end of school so he never figured it out. Then there was graduation, and then people started leaving – early admissions, setting up in a new city, vacations. Sam was buzzing with the excitement of it. The change that was brewing.

It was a hot day in August when he decided to seek Peter out. They had both been so busy that they hadn’t hung out just the two of them for a while, and Sam was already mourning that, wanted to pack in as much Peter time before they both left as possible. He also figured he should talk to him about some things.

He showed up on Peter’s doorstep at noon. Peter’s mom answered the door, told him that Peter was in his room and to just go right up. Sam took the stairs two at a time, buzzing nervous energy. He found Peter sitting at his desk, working on something on his laptop. He stood when Sam knocked on the door.

“Sup, Pete.”

“Hey,” Peter said, and there was still something off, something Sam couldn’t pinpoint.

“I did text that I was coming over. You never answered.”

“I’m surprised you wanted to hang out,” Peter said, an edge to his voice that Sam didn’t like. “I thought you would already have moved on.”

“Moved –? What?”

“Well we’ll barely see each other, since we’re not going to the same college. Things will be totally different.”

If Sam hadn’t known any better, he would have said Peter was trying to pick a fight. “I thought we squared this away?” Sam said, frowning. “It was a long shot going to the same school, we’re studying different stuff. We’ll still hang out. We’ll still be best friends.”

Peter scowled at him. “I don’t need you to _reassure_ me. I’m just saying – this will really ruin _Vandal_.”

Sam sighed. “Pete, it’s too much for me, you know that.”

“The biggest professional opportunity either of us have ever had, and it’s too much for you? Really, Sam?”

Sam blew out his cheeks, exasperation building in him like a fever. “We’re eighteen. Fuck, I just want to go to college and meet people and not have to worry about our next big scoop, or what the internet thinks of us.” Peter didn’t argue that, just stood there looking broody. Sam pushed on. “Anyway – that’s not why I’m here. I have something I want to tell you.”

“Oh. What?”

Sam was nervous. He had been pretending he wasn’t to himself, but he was, and suddenly it didn’t seem like a little unimportant thing anymore. He twisted the hem of his shirt in his fingers, let out a nervous laugh. “Um. It’s – I guess it’s not _that_ big of a deal, whatever, but it kinda feels like it. Uh.”

“What is it, Sam?”

“I’m bi.” Despite his earlier irritation Sam found himself grinning as he said it. “Just – I don’t know, I thought I should tell you, y’know?”

Peter was silent, his expression now entirely unreadable.

“I wanna be out in college, uh, so I thought I’d get a head start now. The only other person who knows is Gabi. Well – and my parents, of course.” He felt his smile falter as Peter continued to not react.

“So,” Peter said after a moment, “is this all because you kissed me?”

Sam blinked. That wasn’t what he had expected at all. “No. I’ve known – for a while. I’m just, uh, starting to like. Acknowledge it.”

“And you’re sure you’re not just –” Peter waved a hand around derisively “– experimenting?”

“Fucking what?”

“Well you kissed me once, when you were wasted, and now you’re saying you’re bi. You’ve never said anything about this before.”

“It’s – it’s not all about you, Pete. What the fuck.”

“It’s just the _timing_ , Sammy,” Peter sneered, twisted the nickname into a jab. “You’re about to leave for college so you kiss me, then you _avoid_ me for weeks, and now you’re bi. Excuse me for drawing a connection there.”

“You’re the one who brought up that night! And it was a fucking mistake, clearly, so just forget it.”

“See, what did I say? Experimenting.”

“Christ – stop being such a pussy, Pete. It’s fucking 2018. We kissed. You kissed me _back_ , you were all over me, don’t pretend you weren’t. You were fucking loving it. If anyone’s _experimenting_ , it’s you.”

Peter’s voice was solid ice. “Go fuck yourself, Sam.”

Sam reared back. He waited for the apology, the wince of regret, but Peter’s face didn’t change. It stayed frozen. Angry. He _meant_ it.

Sam turned on his heel and left. Walked out of Peter’s room, along the hall, down the stairs, straight to the front door. With every breath he expected to hear Peter call out, follow him. Apologize. Yell. Anything.

It wasn’t until Sam was half a block away that he realized Peter wasn’t coming after him.

It’s Ming who starts the group chat. It’s Gabi’s last week at home before she goes back to her boyfriend and word must have spread, because Sam wakes up one morning to a string of notifications in a chat called _vandal/morning show 9 reunion_. Sam scrolls through the gifs and memes and tries not to care that Peter hasn’t answered yet. He taps out _i’m in_ and leaves it at that.

Dylan offers to host. His parents are there when Sam arrives, bemused by the crowd of young adults taking over their space. Dylan’s mom is fussing over drinks and snacks despite Dylan’s protests. Sam edges into the living room and is immediately accosted by Spencer and Ganj. And then Lucas comes over, and Ming, and Gabi is calling him over to see pictures of Madison’s new puppy. Sam sees Peter lurking in the corner with Phil and his stomach clenches but he’s fine. It’s fine. He will figure out a way to talk to Peter.

In the end, it’s Peter that approaches Sam. The party is winding down, a few people already trickling out, and Sam is still trying to decide what to say. And then suddenly, Peter is next to him.

“We should – we should talk.” There’s a muscle ticking in Peter’s jaw, each word sounding like he’s forcing it out. “Are you – free?”

“Right now?” Sam blinks at him then starts nodding, a little manically. “Yes. Yes, I’m free right now. Wanna –? Coffee? Or something?”

Peter nods once. That’s all that Sam needs; he’s already waving for Peter to follow him to his car. He waves to Gabi as he leaves, and her eyes flit between him and Peter. She flashes him a thumbs-up.

They drive to the nearest Starbucks in silence, heavy and claustrophobic. Sam parks up and hops out, desperate to start the ball rolling here, to have Peter actually talk to him. They both order and find a seat by the window, and the anticipation is buzzing under Sam’s skin, insistent and needy. He forces himself not to tap his foot impatiently. He gulps down half his iced coffee and schools his face into a calm, you-can-confide-in-me expression.

“Sam.” Peter’s voice is somber. “I have something I have to tell you.”

Sam sets his cup down, tries to keep his voice and face neutral. “Okay.”

Peter takes a deep breath. “This is probably – this will probably be a shock, um. And I’m sorry for not telling you sooner. But I’ve been – working through stuff, and – um.” He falters.

“Pete. Dude, it’s okay, you can tell me anything.”

Peter shoots Sam a glance. He looks like he’s going to puke. “I – um. I’m gay.”

Sam nods encouragingly. “Okay. Great! Pete, that’s great.”

“I mean – is it?”

“Sure!”

Peter opens his mouth like he’s going to say something else, but nothing comes out. He looks confused.

“I mean – I think it’s great?” Sam nudges Peter’s foot under the table. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“You – you don’t seem surprised.”

Sam rubs the back of his neck. “Um, yeah, about that. I saw Randall the other day and he – uh, he told me he thought you were gay, and. I guess I haven’t really been able to stop thinking about that since. So I didn’t _know_ , but it was in my head, y’know?”

Peter chews his lip. “Right.”

“Sorry, dude, I – I didn’t mean to like. Find out before you told me.”

“It’s okay.” Peter’s expression hasn’t relaxed, he still looks stressed and upset. “You’re taking this really well.”

“Why wouldn’t I? There’s nothing wrong with it. I’m _bi_ I mean – why would I care if you’re gay?”

“I was _shitty_ to you when you came out to me,” Peter says in a rush, eyebrows pinching together. “I was the _worst_ , I was unsupportive and judgy and I – I _invalidated_ –”

“Oh my god,” Sam says, holding up a hand, “Pete. It’s okay.”

“No it’s not,” Peter says miserably.

“I wasn’t – I’m pretty sure I was shitty, too.” Sam frowns, a thought occurring to him. “I mean, like – when I did that case against you in the first season of _Vandal_ , talking about how much you liked dicks –”

“Your investigative journalism isn’t that bad after all.” Peter pushes some spilled sugar around on the tabletop, not looking at Sam.

“Jesus. Pete, I’m really sorry. I was just fucking around, I didn’t mean – I didn’t want to like, embarrass you.”

“It’s okay.”

Sam remembers how brittle Peter had been after watching it, how hostile. His righteous outrage at Sam’s laziness made far more sense now; Sam can’t believe he didn’t pick up on it at the time. “Hey,” he says, trying to break the tension, “it’s true for me, too. Like – the whole thing was kinda – _doth protest too much_ , y’know? Kinda showed my hand there.”

Peter looks up at him. His mouth twitches. “Yeah, guess you did.” He looks out of the window, at the summer evening. “Want to go for a walk?”

Sam nods. “Yeah, okay, sure. Whatever you want.” A walk is good. A walk means that Peter still wants to talk to him.

They end up wandering down a side street and into the burbs. Peter is twitchy, can’t seem to find a comfortable place to leave his hands. He’s nearly done with his coffee and keeps taking tiny sips, until the cup must be empty. Sam’s got his own hands tucked into his pockets, abandoned his drink inside in his haste to follow Peter. They bump elbows.

“Listen,” Sam says, because Peter hasn’t said anything yet. “I thought – when I told you I was bi, and you acted weird, I thought you were, like – biphobic or something. I’m really sorry. I didn’t know it was because you were still in the closet.”

Peter hums noncommittally. He’s fiddling with the lid of his coffee, looking straight ahead.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sam asks, quietly. “Everyone else knew. _Randall_ knew. I mean I like Randall, he’s great, but – it’s _me_. You tell me everything.”

Peter adjusts his glasses. “I was figuring things out. I didn’t want to announce anything prematurely.”

Sam snorts. “That’s so you.”

“And then it was just easier to not correct you. Whenever you assumed stuff, about girls, whatever. It was just easier to ignore it. And then – I guess I was jealous.”

Sam sputters, completely taken aback. “ _Jealous_? Of what?”

“When you told me you were bi. You just came out like it was no big deal. And it’s not, I get it, but you just made it seem so easy.” Peter is gesticulating wildly now, the way he does when he’s worked up. “And – and I always assumed you were straight, which meant that it was – harmless for me to like you, because it didn’t matter. You were _straight_. But you’re bi, which just meant that you don’t like me back.”

Sam isn’t sure he heard correctly. He stops in the middle of the sidewalk, pulls on Peter’s elbow so that they’re standing facing each other. “Wait – you like me?”

Peter makes an agonized sound. “ _Yes_.”

“Pete. Pete, I kissed you, after that party. I got drunk and all I wanted to do was hang out with you. And then I kissed you and we fell asleep _spooning_.”

“You were drunk,” Peter says.

“Yeah. Inhibitions gone, and all I wanted to do was kiss you. Then we had a huge fight and didn’t talk for a year, and the first time we hung out after that I kissed you _again_.”

“But,” Peter says, frowning, “you were stoned. You were just – stoned, and feeling bad for me.”

“No, dude, I wanted to kiss you. So I did. And then you ran away.”

Peter’s still frowning, like Sam has asked him a really complicated riddle. “Wait. So –?”

Sam grasps Peter’s shoulders with both hands. “Peter Maldonado. I. Like. You.”

Peter doesn’t say anything for a while, the moment stretching on and on as they stare at each other in the gathering dusk. Finally, after what feels like ten years of Sam’s life, he asks: “Like-like?”

Sam laughs, because there’s nothing else to do. “You fucking nerd. Yes. I like-like you.”

“Oh. Wow.”

“ _Wow_? Are you kidding me, Pete?”

“It’s all I’ve got right now.” Peter looks a little shell shocked. “Um. So – so you liked me when you came over after the party?”

“Yeah.”

“And – when you told me you were bi, when I was a dickhole about it?”

“Yep.”

“And – and, uh, all last year? Even when we weren’t talking?”

“I’ve been nursing this crush for fucking years, a little separation didn’t do shit.”

“I’ve liked you since before _Vandal_ ,” Peter says. He looks like he’s having an epiphany, right there on the sidewalk in front of Sam. “I’ve liked you for _ages_.”

Sam smirks. “It’s not a competition, Pete.”

“It is, and I’m winning.”

“Oh, yeah? Do you need a prize for that accomplishment?”

Peter’s face splits into a grin. “You know, actually, yeah. I do.”

The third time Sam kisses Peter is in the bright circle of a streetlight. But this time Peter meets him halfway, his hand bunching in the front of Sam's shirt; this time there's no hesitation. This time, Sam knows he'll remember all the details. He's already cataloguing them in his mind for later: the way Peter's still smiling, the way he's up on his toes a little even though he doesn't really need to be. 

“Oh no,” Peter says after a moment, and Sam pulls back immediately, heart already sinking, but then Peter continues: “Dylan's going to be _insufferable_ about this.”

So Sam just laughs, pulls Peter in again. “Worth it.”

**Author's Note:**

> warnings: miscommunication around coming out; a bit of biphobia; inebriated kissing


End file.
